


The Great Escape?

by fizzbuzzler



Series: La Valette [3]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-21
Updated: 2017-09-21
Packaged: 2019-01-03 18:31:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12152370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fizzbuzzler/pseuds/fizzbuzzler
Summary: Back in the dungeons things look bleak. But there seems to be a light at the end of the tunnel.





	The Great Escape?

Iorveth was watching the man in the arena fight for his life. He stood in the shadows of the entrance tunnel and his fists clenched at his side, yearning for a blade to hold, and to join the vicious battle just a few yards away from him.  
The crowd above him roared whenever the silver blade found it’s mark. The elf tried to ignore the moans that rose from the stands on the rare occasions when the beast managed to hit the white-haired fighter.  
But the man seemed impervious to the attacks and continued to dance around the monster and slash at it, using every chance he got.  
With ground teeth Iorveth followed Geralt’s movements - it should have been just like any other fight, like any other night in the arena, when their blood would be spilled but when they ultimately would leave victorious, drunk on adrenalin and endorphines.  
However, tonight was not a normal night.

At a particularly nasty swipe of the huge arch griffin’s talons that nearly cleaved the Witcher in two, Iorveth grabbed the metal grate that separated him from the arena, his knuckles white and his breath hitching in his throat. But Geralt had managed a near impossible jump and roll and was already back at his feet - teeth bared he thrust his sword into the flesh behind the beasts front leg. When the blade went in without much resistance the griffin roared and bucked, it’s talons ripping through the air. The Witcher immediately let go of his sword, rolling to evade the razor-sharp claws but when he came back up on his knees Iorveth could see that his move had brought him in direct vicinity of the beasts head and the vicious beak.  
„No“ - Iorveth’s cry was the only sound in the arena as he watched Geralt on his knees, trying to evade the looming beak but he was too slow, too weak and the jump he had intended was only a stumble that dropped him on his back in front of the griffin. A triumphant howl echoed in the arena when the mortally-wounded beast ripped into the Witcher throwing him around like a rag doll before a final shudder went through it's body and it dropped dead into the sand.  
Iorveth stood at the grate - all he could see was a heap of torn flesh and leather, the Witcher’s white hair stained red from both the griffin’s and his own blood.  
With a roar the elf turned around and started to attack whoever came into his path. Guards, other fighters, even the medics who were on their way out into the arena. All the Scoia’tael wanted was to get his hands around Roche’s throat and kill the man. Somehow he managed to get hold of a sword from one of the fallen guards, and he went completely berserk.  
Iorveth only stopped when there was nobody left to attack. His bandana had loosened and dropped to the floor, and he was covered in sweat and gore. Slowly his vision cleared and taking deep breaths he became calm enough to assess the damage. Strewn around him were nearly two dozen bodies - some still moving and trying to get away from him.  
At the edges of the room he saw other guards - all had their crossbows trained at him but hadn’t used them yet. His eye narrowed on them as he calculated how many he would be able to kill before their bolts brought him down.

“Don’t kill him.” came a familiar voice from behind. The elf turned slowly - in the short tunnel to the arena stood Roche with four guards and two medics who supported a body between them. Iorveth’s eye fixed immediately on the Witcher, or what was left of him.  
Belying all probability he was still alive and conscious, and he managed to lift his head to look at the elf.  
Blood dripped from his lips and his voice was just a wet whisper “Iorveth… stop it. No use…”  
With a groan his body convulsed violently and the two medics lost their grip on him. When he hit the stone floor he didn’t have the strength to catch himself and he landed hard, his face contorting into a mask of pain.  
Slowly moving closer Iorveth dropped to his knees in front of Geralt, never letting go of his sword. He took the Witcher’s chin in his hand and lifted his head gently. “Do you want this to end?” His quiet voice held no emotion at all but his eye burned and he fixed the Witcher’s yellow eyes with his gaze. A small pained smile was all Geralt managed.  
Then his head dipped in a nearly invisible nod and his eyes blazed at the elf.

Iorveth pushed his blade forward and felt as if it had parted his own flesh. He watched the light in those yellow eyes change - at first there was still some life in them but soon that small flicker was snuffed out. His vision started swimming and when he looked up he saw the faces of the men around him. Roche still looked shocked and unable to utter any form of command. But while the elf was still kneeling there, holding the sword that had finally ended the Witcher’s suffering, the guards came back to life. Iorveth heard the telltale twangs of several crossbows. He was hit by an invisible fist, first in his chest and then his stomach and thigh. The force threw him on his back, and then came agony and chased all other feelings away before everything turned black.

 

He felt a sharp pain on his cheek and heard a scream. His mind was completely lost and he started fighting whoever was just holding him down.  
Another slap in his face made him stop. He lay there, panting and still on the verge of panic. His eye locked onto the figure that loomed over him. Yellow eyes shone in the near dark, the last embers of the camp fire reflecting in them. They were full of concern and Iorveth could feel that Geralt wanted to ask him what he had dreamt about, but already knew the elf would refuse any answer.  
He blinked rapidly to chase away the last dark wisps of the dream still clouding his mind. He gratefully accepted the water Geralt held out for him. Both kept silent and after a while the Witcher stood up with a grunt that could have meant everything and walked away. Iorveth could hear him busying himself with the horses.

That dream - it had been with him since they had left the dungeons. Every single night he was forced to relive those horrible moments when the griffin nearly killed Geralt. Because that part of the dream had been real. The beast just hadn’t managed to tear him to pieces because Roche’s guards had stopped it with their crossbows, but it had been so close. Too close. Goosebumps erupted on Iorveth’s skin and he shivered when he thought about the last months. 

Roche had become increasingly more savage in his choice of opponent for the Witcher, ever since Geralt had started to defy him.  
The flogging a few months ago had only been the beginning. And although the Witcher had played his part with the dragon and the maiden, his treatment of the girl had nevertheless not been what Roche had had in mind. The fact that both Iorveth and Olgierd had followed Geralt’s example and shown both compassion and, in von Everec's case, even a frightening display of protectiveness towards the young women they were supposed to simply rape, had not done any good, either.  
All three girls had vanished from the dungeons, and none of the men had had the courage to openly speak about it, in fear of what they might discover.  
Roche had then started to throw the Witcher into the arena every single night for a fortnight. Usually they would get at least a day or two in between fights to recuperate, but Roche delighted in the fact that the White Wolf was so much more than a normal man, and he seemed hellbent to find the Witcher’s limits. So far he hadn’t succeeded, but it had only been a question of time.

During the last few days before the fight against the arch griffin, Iorveth saw how the Witcher seemed to take longer with everything - waking up, eating, donning his armor. And when he looked into his eyes, a strain was visible that had never been there before.  
Trying to help Geralt, and to give him some peace, Iorveth would snarl at everyone who dared approach them and wanted something from the Witcher.  
Even some of the guards seemed to be concerned, as they were much more restrained in their harassment and would rely upon verbal insults instead of using any physical force. 

Geralt never even once mentioned the stress he was under - in typical Witcher-style he just moved on, and continued to fight every night. New monsters, some of which had to be brought from afar, larger numbers - he would take them all on. Other fighters had to go against three or four drowners, Geralt had to deal with a dozen plus a few bilge hags.  
After every fight he would leave the arena - his silver sword remaining behind - bleeding from various wounds that his body would have already started to heal, and go to his cell only to emerge the next morning, throwing himself into training before he had to face the next fight in the evening. At the beginning he had joked with Iorveth about Roche’s intentions, but after the first week that had stopped, and after ten days Geralt had stopped talking to anyone at all, including the elf, who could only stand by and watch. 

 

And the arch griffin had been his last monster. He had to be carried out of the arena, although his wounds were only superficial. He couldn’t walk by himself anymore and he barely managed to go through his usual training the next day. The fight that night had him on his hands and knees in front of von Everec within minutes and he didn’t offer any resistance when the other took him in the sand in front of the howling audience. 

Iorveth only heard the guards talk about it with incredulous voices - none had ever thought to see the Witcher weak as a kitten and obviously broken.  
It was then when Iorveth decided that they had to get out of there - either that or he would kill them both. Whatever kept Geralt alive at this point he had no idea, but it looked a lot like the White Wolf had finally given up and Iorveth couldn’t have that.

So he had started to plan their escape. His ideas became more and more complicated with each passing day. He thought about smuggling them out with the corpses of the monsters who were dumped in a ravine somewhere outside. Or setting fire to the dungeons and use the ensuing panic to make their way out. But as he had no idea how to pose as a drowner or how to set fire to stone he quickly discarded those plans. Digging themselves out was also out of the question - the dungeons were hewn into the bedrock below the castle. And even a rather desperate attempt to flee via the training grounds - the only area above ground - proved nearly fatal.  
This time it was him who hung from the chain in the middle of the arena, and he felt the barbed leather bite into his flesh. Knowing that the Scoia’tael wasn’t as resilient as the Witcher, Roche had stopped after a dozen lashes but it still had been enough to keep Iorveth from the fights for more than a week.  
After that he had basically given himself up as well. He did what was asked of him but he acted like an automaton. There were no more sneers - no more resistance - no sarcastic comments. He remained quiet and felt as if everything happened to someone else.

When the guards came to his cell, he thought that Roche had finally had enough, and would just kill them off. He was shackled and led up into an area he had never been to before. When they shoved him into a room he blinked. Geralt stood there already, a wary look on him. In front of him was Roche, one hand on the Witcher’s chest - he had clearly just stopped speaking. When the guards and Iorveth entered he didn't look at them but kept his gaze on Geralt. With a very atypical gentle gesture his hand moved to the Witcher’s chin and lifted his head. His eyes were hard when he looked at him. “As I’ve said before - nothing will ever be easy for you. Not even dying.” He dropped his hand and a slight smile showed on his lips when Geralt kept staring at him.  
Iorveth couldn’t suppress the snarl that came over his lips.  
“You bastard, stop torturing him - kill him or leave him be.” His voice was rough with hate and disgust at the man before him.  
“Interesting choice you are giving me there, squirrel. Do you really want me to kill him? Right here, before your eyes. Cut his throat like a worthless traitor’s?”  
Geralt hadn’t moved an inch during their conversation but his eyes stared at a point on Roche’s desk. Iorveth followed his gaze and gasped. There were Geralt’s armor and both his swords. And right beside it, his own armor, bow and quiver. Everything was clean and in perfect condition. So the bastard hadn’t only kept the silver sword he had the Witcher use in his fights, but also everything else.  
Roche was still waiting for an answer, and Iorveth decided to give him one. With a hiss he bunched up and attacked. His teeth found their mark and he ripped into the soft flesh of Roche’s cheek. At the last moment Roche tried to evade the furious elf but he was too slow. He grunted and his fist hit the Scoia’tael right in the solar plexus. The sudden pain and inability to draw a breath had Iorveth loosen his jaw, and the guards were able to pull him back. They pushed him to his knees and a few choice hits in his kidneys made him curl up.  
“You stupid son of a bitch.” Roche bit out, holding his hand over the bite mark on his face. Blood was freely flowing down his neck and between his fingers glistened raw flesh.  
With a terrifying grin Iorveth looked up, blood on his teeth. Slowly his tongue moved over his lips and licked up Roche’s blood there. Roche shivered, and it was clearly not just from anger but pure, unadulterated lust.  
He took one step closer to the elf and backhanded him, hard enough to send Iorveth flying. Geralt had watched with burning eyes but two of the guards had their swords at his throat the whole time, so he remained where he was.  
Roche had turned back to his desk and found a piece of cloth which he pressed to his cheek - the wound would definitely need stitching.  
“Honestly, sometimes I wonder how you managed to lead the Scoia’tael. Something like that usually requires a certain minimum level of intelligence and I’m not sure if you even possess enough to lead a herd of sheep.” His look turned from the elf to the Witcher. “I guess I better talk to you, at least you’re inclined to listen without jumping at me at the first chance you get.” He gestured to his men to pull Iorveth back to his feet and when both men stood before him, he put the cloth on the table, not caring if he was still bleeding and crossed his arms. “I don’t know if you’ve heard, but another king has been killed.” He shot a knowing look at Geralt “The kingslayer has been rather busy while you were here. Obviously the whole Northern Realm is in panic like a bunch of headless chickens, with the Nilfgaardians on our door step and the other kingdoms at each other’s throats. The few nobles who still try to run the country have decided that the secret service is needed to stabilize both this kingdom and the others. We will move out within a week on this special mission. The arena will be no more. There will be no more fights.” He paused and looked at the two men who were following his every word.  
“There are hardly any prisoners left who fought in the arena. Most have been killed in the last few fights and the survivors will be executed within the next few days. Which leaves me to decide what I’m going to do with the two of you.”  
Iorveth spat out and his voice was dripping with disdain “So you’re not going to execute us right away - or did you really just bring us here to tell us that. We should be honored, I guess - I doubt you showed the others the same consideration.”

For the first time Geralt spoke, and he tilted his head slightly “Looks like Temeria’s finest are in a bit of a tight spot. Tell Iorveth what you told me before.” His voice was gravelly and there was some of the old steel behind it.  
Roche leant back at his table, the blood still running from his cheek and dripping down on his uniform. He ignored it and turned his gaze to the Scoia’tael who, rather unusual for him, just stood there and waited.  
Iorveth could tell pretty well when the person talking to him was nervous and although it was very hard to see, he knew that Roche was twitchy as hell.  
The silence in the room stretched on until Roche suddenly turned around and pulled a piece of parchment from his desk. “This here is a royal pardon. Royal in so far as it bears the royal seal but the signature is of the current commander of Temeria’s army. As there is currently no king to sign anything. You will receive this pardon if you decide to join the Blue Stripes and fight for our cause and our country.”  
You could have heard a needle drop to the floor in the silence that followed those words. Then Iorveth started laughing - and it wasn’t a dramatic laugh just for effect but a real, deep laughter coming from someone who had just heard the best joke in his life.  
“Thank you, thank you so much, Roche!” The elf managed between bouts of laughter. “I had never dreamed that I would get the chance for a last real laugh before I die.”  
Iorveth really couldn’t believe what he had just heard - but he also knew that Roche was serious about the offer. “I cannot imagine how desperate you must be to stand there with this scrap of parchment and offer us a pardon. Oh, the irony. You ploughing dh’oine bastard.” The last sentence came out between clenched teeth and there was no humor left in Iorveth’s eye. Hatred blazed at the man who still had his life in his hands and obviously would continue to so, no matter what the elf would decide. And it was not just his own life in the hands of the Temerian, who now looked with an expression of clear contempt at the elf.  
“I am the bastard who decides about your life, and over his.” Roche pointedly looked at Geralt. The Witcher lifted an eyebrow but remained silent. As did Iorveth - tensed up, he just waited.  
“So - enough with the pleasantries. What will it be? Service under my command or the rope?” Roche questioningly looked from one man to the other. The Witcher was the first to answer “For how long do you want us? Don’t expect me to subscribe to the secret service for life. I’d rather hang than slink around the shadows for the rest of my life.”  
Roche seemed to consider this “Somehow I cannot imagine you as a secret agent anyway - you are not really inconspicuous. But you would do fine with a few choice missions. I’d say a few months - a year at maximum. If you survive, that is.” He looked at the Scoia’tael “Same for you squirrel, you should actually feel right at home with that. Who knows, maybe you will want to stay on, once the missions are finished.” He grinned devilishly.  
Iorveth snorted “I will never conscript to your blindingly stupid patriotism or whatever it is that drives you. But I will for sure outlive you and your pathetic Temeria. If the Vatt’ghern accepts, I will join you as well.” With that he looked at Geralt who seemed surprised that the elf had accepted the offer this quickly. The Witcher nodded slightly and turned back to Roche “You heard the elf. We will both join your troops and finish those missions. But then we will be gone.” He seemed wary, as if suspecting that there was something else still missing.  
This time the smile on Roche’s bloodied face was actually frightening. “Very good. And before I forget, there is one last condition with the pardon. I take it you won’t object too much. You will continue to service me.” His look left no doubt to the interpretation of his demand. “If you refuse, the other will regret it instantly.” He motioned to the guards and before either the elf or the Witcher were able to resist, each had a thin metal band snapped around their throats. The metal fit snugly without cutting into the flesh and it felt warm, as if it had already been in contact with living skin.  
“A mage who owed me quite a lot of money from his abhorrent betting behavior was kind enough to devise those bands. Those bands make it impossible for you to harm me - should you try or get someone else to try, you will severely regret it… and then die. But before that, the person wearing the other band will suffer. They won't die but continue to live and suffer.” He shot a look at Iorveth. “Which in your case would be for quite a while, I imagine.” 

“Otherwise they are completely harmless.” he finished, looking way too smug for Iorveth. 

With that they were dismissed. Roche gave them their armor and weapons and offered them to make use of the ‘guest rooms’ as they wouldn’t be required to return to their cells.  
But before he left, Geralt turned back “What is with Olgierd?”  
“He chose to stay.” 

And with that they were officially no longer prisoners but members of the Blue Stripes. Traveling the land, trying to identify Nilfgaardian spies and either capturing or killing them. Roche was adamant that they needed to ‘clean up the country side’ as he called it.  
The Witcher had regained some of his strength but still was not fully back to his old self. However, he already started to accuse Iorveth of acting like a mother hen around him. The elf grinned at that thought - it was good to think of something else but that nightmare of him killing Geralt.

He rubbed his hand over his face and started to search their bags for something to eat before they rode on. When he felt a hand on his shoulder he turned around and opened his mouth to ask the Witcher if he wanted something to eat as well. 

The fire in the yellow eyes had him swallow his question. His breath hitched when the Witcher slowly lifted his hand and put it around his throat. The gesture was incredibly gentle, the fingers just lightly touching his skin but he could feel the power behind it. When Geralt pushed, Iorveth just followed the movement, until he lay flat on his back, the Witcher looming over him. Only now did the elf realize that the other wore nothing but his leather trousers. He had been washing up in the small stream nearby, ice-cold drops of water still visible on his skin and falling down on Iorveth from the wet strands of hair that clung to his face.  
A knee pushed between Iorveth’s thighs and he willingly moved to accommodate it. The hand was still around his throat and tightened slightly. The elf closed his eye with a small moan.  
He could feel the fingers of Geralt’s other hand deftly opening the bindings of his trousers, and when they touched his hot skin, his hips bucked.  
“Eager, are we?” came a deep throaty rumble from above him. Opening his eye again his vision was filled with those burning yellow irises, before he felt soft lips on his. There was still no force behind the Witcher’s movements, as he softly started kissing the elf. His tongue slipped into Iorveth’s mouth and explored him leisurely. But when Iorveth lifted his arms to draw the other closer to him, the fingers around his throat tightened warningly “Stop that. You will not move until I tell you to.” The heat in Geralt’s voice did nothing to alleviate the threat. With a grunt Iorveth let his hands drop to his sides - he could live with that.  
Still holding on to his throat the Witcher started to move. First he lightly bit along the elf’s jaw before moving down to his collar bone where his tongue had Iorveth’s skin erupt in goosebumps.  
The sensation continued along the vines of his tattoo and finally to his the sensitive skin around his nipples. He stopped breathing, waiting for the other man to continue, and the feeling of his tongue and teeth but nothing happened. All he felt was the other’s breath, lightly teasing him. He squirmed and yearned for more. The low chuckle that followed made him buck again, only to feel the fingers on his throat tighten once more. “Patience, elf.”  
Iorveth managed an indignant huff at that but then light fingers ran over his pecs and ghosted over his nipples. He arched his back, trying to follow the soft touches but the Witcher only used the lightest of skin contact and watched Iorveth intently. Behind the fire of arousal in his eyes shone amusement and something else, something deeper. But before the elf could think about it anymore, the fingers had trailed down his torso and found his already hard cock.  
When the still cold hand wrapped around him he thrust involuntarily into it - he opened his mouth but his groan was swallowed by Geralt’s lips, who kissed him hungrily and added his own moan when their tongues met.  
Iorveth finally relaxed completely into the Witcher’s hands - something he rarely did and therefore treasured even more. He could feel Geralt’s hands on him, both constricting and relaxing in the same torturously slow rhythm that had him pant and whine. And then the Witcher started to lap at his skin and bite his nipples. The grip around his throat had already narrowed his vision and he felt heady from the lack of air. His hips tried feebly to get more friction to his cock and he could feel the tight coil in his belly. All it took to send him over the edge, was the Witcher starting to pull his cock with long, hard strokes. A choked cry tore from his throat and he felt like every single muscle in his body constricted at once. He arched his back, spilling his seed over his stomach and Geralt’s fingers who continued to stroke him through his release. When Iorveth finally came back, the hands around his throat and cock were gone and the Witcher lay beside him, head in one hand and the other softly stroking the elf’s shoulder.  
With a glint in his eyes Geralt smiled “I would have never thought you could let yourself go like this. It is beautiful.” Iorveth looked at him from a half-lidded eye “You are the only one who is allowed to see that and survive. So enjoy it while you can.” But there was no heat in his voice. 

The Witcher chuckled and moved to stand up. “What about you?” Iorveth caught the other man’s hand. “Just watching you come undone under my hands had a certain effect I cannot deny. And therefore I’ll have to wash up again.” The elf looked rather incredulous but the dark spot in front of the Witcher’s trousers was not to be mistaken. 

He watched as Geralt went back down to the stream and with a sigh grabbed a cloth and followed him.

**Author's Note:**

> I think this is the last story from the dungeons. Thanks for reading and commenting.


End file.
